Comfortable Denial
by Sandman Zane
Summary: Worrying only brought you down and it was tradition for Randy Marsh to be on top.' Oneshot. Slash. RandyGerald.


Author's Note: Okay, I know I should be updating Bitter Compound. Isn't happening for a while. Sorry to dissapoint you guys. Okay, this story is a story of firsts. It's my first one shot and my first slash. If you don't like Randy/Gerald, just don't read. It's just a practice to reteach myself how to write since it's been ages. Go easy on me.

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With the inevitable betrayal came the fantastic rush of lust that would cause his spine to tingle and his flesh to crawl. He'd breathe in the sweet scent of intimacy through his dark whiskers, holding it in until the next time he'd commit what he liked to call, 'his Spouse's Unthinkable.'

He'd finish his business, release a sigh, and turn to his left. He was done with the other for the night.

Attachment never was his thing. He liked the idea of being able to do and not worry. Worrying only brought you down and it was tradition for Randy Marsh to be on top.

Literally.

He liked the dominance. He liked the sense of control over other humans, being able to have them perform for him. It was the biggest form of delight he could ever be graced with. Of course these feelings were subconscious, as is with most people.

It'd start with going out for a beer. Most affairs, intentional or unintentional, started this way. Randy found himself gulping down several before grabbing the sleeve of Gerald's jacket and dragging him to the car. It seemed that with more alcohol in his system, the whole ordeal would be easier to take. He noticed that Gerald, watching Randy with a somewhat fascinated eye, never finished even one beer in the span it took Randy to drink four.

They sometimes could not resist the urges, those hair-grabbing, bed sheet-twisting-in-delight urges, and had to succumb to them at ungodly hours of the night. Careful not to awaken the slumbering wives, they'd get dressed and write them notes saying that work had called them in. Of course they'd be thrown away if they'd return to find that neither Sharon nor Sheila had stirred. There was no need for incriminating evidence.

It was exhilarating. There was no way to describe the excitement that would cloud their minds and heighten their senses. They were doing something ungodly, something vile, and it was all too easy to be discovered. This constant state of fear only made the excitement paramount.

He didn't know why he did it. He'd go out several times a week and betray his family with another man who was doing the same thing. He wasn't even sure if he liked it. He was positive he didn't i_love _the other man. It was impossible for him to love outside of his family. He loved Sharon. She was his wife and a great friend. Stan and Shelly were unexplainably taking a major portion of his heart. They had to; they were his children. Gerald? He was just someone he fucked on the side.

Randy soon came to realize that Gerald fell in love with him; the relationship moved on by default. He didn't want to be loved and he most certainly did not want to love Gerald. At least half of his requests were being met.

Sometimes Gerald wouldn't drink anything. The intoxication of the alcohol was nothing compared to the intoxication that was Randy Marsh. It was one of these nights that Randy finally discovered the love Gerald had for him. He was watching Randy with a set fascination, yet there was a glimmer of disappointment and a glimpse longing in his deep brown eyes. Leaning against the bar in his sober stupor, he couldn't help but notice how Randy remained to seem majestic and proud even while slouching drunkenly in a bar stool.

It was obvious to Randy that Gerald wouldn't take his hurt eyes off of him._Oh boy_,he thought, as he reached for another drink, one more than he ever consumed in the span of their affair. "Come on," he muttered gruffly, grabbing Gerald's sleeve and stumbling out of the bar. There was no need to acknowledge the stares; they were so accustomed to receiving them that there was no possible way to be phased by them.

The car ride to the hotel was a quiet one. Gerald drove silently, his eyes never daring to leave the road. He didn't bother to look at Randy; he knew he was leaning his head against the window with a mixed look of consternation and drunken lust. Any trace of excitement? Gerald was beginning to wonder if Randy possessed that feeling (beyond getting free tickets to a Broncos game or a free beer, of course), or any feeling of love for that matter.

Once in the hotel room, they committed the act of adultery, man to man. Randy was controlling and Gerald was submissive; just the way they liked it. Gerald learned from Randy, be it positions or whatnot. It was habit, or even tradition, for Randy to roll over or even shove on his pants and shoes and walk home, shoving his hands frantically in each pocket until he found the comforting box of cigarettes. He couldn't help the deep feeling of remorse, guilt, and disgust that would grab a hold of his every part of being after they fulfilled that moment of passionate disaster.

Gerald would sigh so heavily, so slowly, as if he was trying to exhale his feelings away. No matter how painstakingly obvious it was that Randy almost didn't care about Gerald or what they shared, Gerald couldn't help but fall in love with the man in denial all over again.

It was that air of mystery the Marsh father possessed. His emotions were so clear, so etched in stone, that it was actually difficult to determine his feelings or thought process. Gerald would lay in the bed for another hour or so, hands behind his bald head, and ponder the ways of his 'lover.'

This night, however, was different.

With a groan, Randy would roll to his favored side without a word. He was situated quite comfortably until he felt Gerald's hairy arm slink around his waist.

"Gerry, what the hell?"

"I love you," was the whispered response.

Randy could feel the hot breath becoming trapped in his throat. The three words he never wanted to hear were being muttered in his very ear.

"I love you," Gerald repeated.

Randy shot out of the bed, grabbing for his jeans and shirt and tossed them on haphazardly. He stood straight, slipping on socks while glaring outside the window. Gerald watched, his face still and expressionless, his eyes red and pained as he refused to blink. He knew he'd cry, and it's the last thing he wanted Randy to notice at this point.

After tying his shoes, Randy took to buttoning his shirt in a frenzy.

Randy glanced back up at Gerald, his thick fingers fumbling with the small buttons. "Fuck you," he snapped at both Gerald and the wretched buttons, before storming out and slamming the door, leaving Gerald alone for it to echo inside for the next hour to come.

---

Rain pattered against the window almost as if in a musical situation and slid down like tears against a baby's cheek. The sky swarmed gray as if angry or tormented, circling directly above his head. Randy stared out this window for quite some time. So long, in fact, that his eyes became distorted and focused on his reflection instead.

His eyes had grown heavy due to thick, distant bags underneath each eye. He lost the usual spark to his lively blue eyes, and there was a significant change in his facial features. His cheekbones seemed to have been hollowed out, and his skin had lost its color.

It had only been two weeks since he denied Gerald. Only two weeks since he engaged in sexual relations with the other man. They were the longest and the most treacherous weeks of Randy's existence. He spent several nights tossing and turning in bed beside his wife, where he was supposed to be, but no bed compared to that of the squeaky, sagging one in the hotel with his best friend beneath him.

He made love to his wife several times. It lacked the excitement, the risk factor, and the exhilaration that sharing a bed with Gerry could bring. Needless to say it was lifeless and unimportant. Sharon, however, could not disagree more. Those six times were just as exciting and fulfilling as their first week of being Mr. and Mrs. Randy Marsh.

Randy assumed it was the sudden switch of genders that had peaked his performance with the missus.

Never had he done so much thinking in his life. No college exam, no life-threatening decision could have sparked as much thought as the night he stormed out on Gerald. He was angry, pissed even, and there was no doubting that. There was this new feeling, however, one he never really noticed before. But after his long hours of thinking, he realized something.

This feeling was not new. This feeling was denial.

This feeling was what he lived in. It was the reason he had difficulty with almost everything. It was why he was upset with Gerald.

Randy never liked to know anything. He just liked to do and not worry. Worrying only brought you down, and it was tradition for Randy Marsh to be on top.

Worrying made you human. Worrying meant you cared.

Proclaiming love was not denial. Proclaiming love was putting a lot out in the open to be dealt with. Randy was emotionally lazy; he wasn't much of a soul-searcher.

Denial was what he knew. Denial was what he loved. He loved it more than his family, more than money and more than sex with Gerald in a run-down hotel on a squeaky mattress. Denial was comfortable.

So here was Randy Marsh, staring into the dirty window, not into the rain or the dog splashing in the puddles, but his own reflection; the reflection of a pathetic man. He had done what he detested to do. His searched his soul. He did it unknowingly, but the reflection of the man inside made him realize it. He also realized that with the realization of the apparent denial, came the realization of the apparent love for his beer buddy.

He shot up suddenly, grabbed the keys to the car, and sped away to the Broflovski residence.

Gerald was stirred from his nap in the armchair by the sounds of heavy pounding on the front door. Trudging slowly, he opened the door, only to try and slam it shut.

Randy caught it with his arm and squeezed inside effortlessly. They stood there in awkward silence for what seemed like eons, until Randy finally leaned in and planted his moustache-licked lips on Gerald's.

"I love you," he muttered sheepishly.

The only response was the undeniable squeaking of a mattress in a dirty hotel.


End file.
